Creeping Unconsciousness

[Steven]

That's a really effective, and suprising contrast in 'Fritillaries'. What starts out as a classic Spring poem becomes slightly shadowed at the end with the sketch of the man in his favourite garden chair. 'drape silent' sets a foreboding tone in a subtle way.

[bop]

Thanks John and Steven - I just love the word fritillary and - given my blood pressure - burst capillaries seemed apt!

[bop]

A python ate my hyphen -
left it crenulated.
I’m half-way through my life
And feel some-what out-dated.

[bop]

Muscovy, Muscovy, Muscovy duck
waddles and gobbles with an occasional cluck.
Muscovy, Muscovy, Muscovy duck
looks like a swan that’s been hit by a truck.
Muscovy, Muscovy, Muscovy duck
feeds on worms that writhe in the muck.
Muscovy, Muscovy, Muscovy duck
this poem is failing, it’s falling – I’m stuck!
Muscovy, Muscovy, Muscovy duck
I’ve run out of rhyme, but I don’t give a … fig.

[Jee Leong]

What the moth says.

[Dani B]

These are fun! Hey, to index, just click on the post # in the upper right corner of the poem you posted (Muscovy is #19). Wait for the page to load, then grab that url and use it as the link in your index. best -d

[HowardM2]

The first three are fine brief human portraits which do a good job of conveying types of individuals; they remind me somewhat of a poetic version of Elgar's Enigma Variations. The last 3 lines of "Fritillaries" are excellent. I'd like to see more of that type of piece during the month because I think you're on to something there.

[merelynn]

Muscovy Duck made me laugh out loud (literally). Well done. The Mis-Use of Hyphenation was also a pleasure to read.

Happy NaPoMo!

[Mike M]

I love "I am a moth, burnt at the edges, wondering why the moon
is so near and so hot."

fun!

[bop]

Jee, Dani, Howard, merelyn and Mike, thanks for the kind words and encouragement. I'll have another go at the index.

[bop]

At 10.15 the kettle spews its steam,
cheap tea bags brew a metal flavour.
We sit like sardines, mouthless fish
around our little table of tension.
I bolt my sandwich down and gag
on hearing the N word yet again.
The bile in the voice of the speaker
passes unremarked and for a second
the stirring of tea and of hate continues.
I feel the pressure of eyes as a silence
falls on the room when I rise and walk out.

[bop]

It started with how I parted my hair,
then this ceased to be a problem.
I cleaned my teeth systematically,
molars on the right got most attention
at the expense of those on the left,
so I'd compensate consciously.
Nowadays I brush quickly and randomly,
I expect my teeth will fall out soon.

I used to know how each finger felt,
was conscious of the position of my toes
as I drummed them in the confines of my shoes.
I wear gloves and thick socks these days
and rarely exercise my chilblained pinkies.
I used to care about this, as much as I’d cared
about you and love, but I can’t feel so much now.

[5th column]

Wow, Bop, the most recent pair are bright, raw things in the manner of Bukowski.

Keep it up.

[bop]

Thank you 5th! Hope they're not too dark!
bop.

[bop]

Pusillanimous you are not,
even now when you face
the inevitability of death.
Your eyes are still bright and green,
your stare is as vacant as it’s ever been.
Your purr, puss remains enigmatic,
but I’m glad you’re still here at seventeen.